Paint Me in Blood and Desire
by Little Miss Tightly Wound
Summary: AH. TWILIGHT KINKFEST ENTRY. Prompt: Edward isn't a vamp, but he loves blood. He loves Bella's blood the most. She is a willing participant, getting off on it just as much as he does, when he creates beautiful markings on her body.


**AN: This was written for the TwiKink Fest .com.**

**Prompt: Edward isn't a vamp, but he loves blood. He loves Bella's blood the most. She is a willing participant, getting off on it just as much as he does, when he creates beautiful markings on her body.**

**Disclaimer: All recognizable elements contained herein belong to their respective owners.**

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_When I was young, I cut myself with knives…_

The water comes to a rolling boil and Edward drops the scalpels into the shallow pot one at a time. He needs to sterilize the metal so he doesn't leave unwanted marks. The marks they both love and want to keep are created by the technique he has honed and refined through years of dedication and discipline.

_Some said I did it because I hated myself. But, really, I was fascinated with the way the burgundy bands of blood wound themselves around and clung to my arms…_

"Are you comfortable?" Edward asks.

Bella smiles and nods. "Yes," she says. "Thank you."

"Good." He dims the lights and lights the candles and does all the things he does to prepare them both for what's to come, what they crave.

_I loved the sensation of the blade caressing its way through my flesh—cold metal slicing through the warmth of my skin…_

The metal is hot when he retrieves the scalpels from the water. He lays them carefully on a bleached-white tea towel that lines a small silver tray. He remembers the last time they were together like this—not the first time—and the magical current that flowed through his sure strokes as he transversed the veins that ran like ice cold rivers under her snow-white skin.

He carries the tray from the kitchen back toward their bedroom. When he re-enters the room, the sight of her, nude and welcoming, almost takes his breath away, but he gains his composure and walks to sit at her side on the bed.

_Then one day I met Bella and she told me she loved it too…_

She is a slender confection made of the purest, richest cream. Her skin is flawless and delectable. The places where she is marked are perfect and sometimes he forgets just how beautiful what they've created really is—pale pink, twisting like decorative ribbons of velvety icing around her delicate ankles and behind her knees.

His hands travel over her warm skin, feeling the crackling of energy and power that constantly vibrates between them, especially when they're like this. When he's sure she's relaxed, a conduit for their devotion, he reaches for a blade then faces her once again, grasping her small, bare foot in his hand and bringing it to his lips.

"You are divine," he says, kissing her arch and ankle, cradling her calf reverently against his cheek.

_What was once condemned as hatred manifest itself as love. What parents and therapists and school counselors deemed a sickness came to save me…_

She looks to him with trust and anticipation, desire and passion. She's on the edge, so to speak, holding her breath, waiting for the first graze of the metal. (He never cuts too deep—just deep enough—avoiding tendons and bones.) It's always what she wants, always what she needs.

He holds her foot steady in the air with one hand, as he brings his other hand to her ankle. She gasps with the first slice, her back arching slightly off the bed. He follows the pattern that lives in her skin, engraved there from their ardor, throbbing with light and heat. He marvels at the beauty of her perfect porcelain as it is painted with crimson stripes. He can't resist touching it.

Edward dips his ring finger in her blood and draws it up the inside of her leg. He replaces her foot on the bed and the scalpel on the tray then gathers more of the liquid on the tips of his fingers, and she moans.

He writes words of love and lust on her skin, traces her nipples then tastes them; she tastes like crisp apples and dirty pennies*.

"God…" she moans. And she writhes beneath him, his wanton whore, his goddess, his everything.

He traces her lips with more of the red and lets her taste herself. His slippery fingers find their way over her chin and collarbone and breasts and belly, leaving their mark on their path to where she's most wet with want.

"I love you," he says as he kisses and licks the corner of her mouth, slips his slick fingers over her clit and inside her.

"And I love you," she whispers as she comes apart beneath him.

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**End notes: Thank you, MsKathy, for breaking me out of my shell. Thank you, Einfach_Mich, for the pre-read, title suggestion, seal of approval, and banner.**

***The phrase "apples and dirty pennies" came from the lovely Chrislee who wrote a terrifying and beautiful future AU about Angel decades after Buffy has died. You can find it here . RAPE WARNING: Angel is a killer with a soul. Not for the faint of heart.**


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